One of the major figures in piano playing in the last century left us this week. Alfred Brendel was the last of a generation of influential Austrian pianists whose other major exponents were Friedrich Gulda and my own teachers Paul Badura-Skoda and Jörg Demus. Many in the musical press considered him the greatest living pianist for his insightful interpretations, especially of the Viennese masters, although he dismissed the notion as ridiculous.

I won’t add to the many obituaries and encomia in new outlets and social media. Instead, I’d just like to share a personal anecdote.

I was fortunate to get to hear Brendel perform numerous times over the years. His most memorable performance was his very last concert. His natural choice for his farewell as a pianist was the Golden Hall of the Vienna Musikverein, widely considered the best concert hall in the world. The Musikverein is also the home of the Vienna Philharmonic, and it was with this orchestra that Maestro Brendel would make his final appearance, at age 75, with a youthful concerto by Mozart, the Concerto in E-flat major, K. 271.

For about a century, this concerto had been widely known as the “Jeunnehomme” Concerto. Supposedly it was written for a Mademoiselle Jeunnehomme, yet nothing could be found as to her identity. Finally, in 2003, a musicologist here in Vienna, Michael Lorenz, uncovered the true identity of the pianist who inspired Mozart to compose this masterpiece. Her name was Victoire Jenamy. A piano virtuoso, she was the daughter of a famous dancer of the time, Jean-George Noverre, with whom Mozart had intended to collaborate on a ballet production.

The moment I had found out about this concert, and that it would be Brendel’s farewell, I dropped by the Musikverein to try to get a ticket. Now, there is a long waiting list for season tickets for the Vienna Philharmonic and an application just to get on the waiting list. That’s just for “regular” concerts. This was the final performance by one of the greatest artists of our time. Of course the concert was sold out long in advance.

But they did tell me that there may be a chance a few standing room tickets could still be available. They directed me to the Philharmonic’s office down the road on the Ring. Lo and behold, I was able to get what may have been the very last standing room ticket!

On the day of the concert, I was recording in the studio of Paul and Eva Badura-Skoda. Paul was my musical mentor, while Eva was a world-renowned musicologist. Eva kindly offered to drive me into town for the concert. In the car, she said, “I’m really looking forward to tonight’s performance. Alfred and I have known each other for well over fifty years.”

“Do you have a ticket?” I asked.

“No, but I’m sure Alfred can get me in. He always does.”

We arrived at the Musikverein. Something to know about Vienna’s classical music scene is that even if a concert is sold out, there’s always a way to get a ticket. Someone whose spouse couldn’t make it is always selling a ticket at the entrance, for instance. (And no one at the Musikverein or Konzerthaus ever scalps a ticket. The most you’ll pay is the face value.) You can always find someone selling a ticket before the concert.

Always, that is, except when it’s Alfred Brendel’s last performance.

We looked everywhere. Eva went inside while I ran around the outside corner to look for anyone with an extra ticket. It was all in vain. Finally the bell rang to indicate that the performance was starting. Eva came back outside. I did the only thing I could: I gave her my ticket.

I slowly went back home sad that I did the right thing (!). If either of us should have that ticket, it was Eva. After all, she and Brendel had been friends for decades. I knew she would truly appreciate the concert… while I missed an historic performance in the classical music world.

The next morning my phone rang. It was Eva.

“How was the concert?”

“Wunderschön. He played marvelously.”

Eva was elderly, and it turns out she didn’t have to stand in the hot standing room section after all. She eventually did find a seat.

Then she asked, “What are doing this evening?”

My only plan was to sulk that I missed such an important event. But I just replied, “Nothing yet.”

“Then you can go to the Musikverein.”

Little did I know that the Vienna Philharmonic played the program twice, and that this was Brendel’s “real” final performance! After the last night’s concert, Eva went back to the ticket office to inquire about tickets for the next evening. It turned out that one person did in fact return a ticket, and incredibly, it happened to be the very best seat in the entire hall! Eva very thoughtfully bought the ticket for me.

That evening I got to enjoy Alfred Brendel’s farewell performance from the front row, dead center, of the balcony. And his playing was indeed marvelous. He left the stage at age 75, at the peak of his considerable powers.

Years later, I got to share this story with him. To my great surprise, he had listened to my Alkan and Liszt albums and wrote me very kind words of praise! (Brendel mentions his admiration for Alkan’s music in his writings.) I never got to know him beyond beyond congratulating him backstage on a few occasions, a brief Q&A at a lecture he gave in 2020, and an email exchange, but he left a lasting impression on me as a model of thoughtful playing.